Guilt
Yellow leaves float like flames
on the surface of dirt packed water
that holds the humble beginnings
of a McIntosh apple tree.
Every Monday morning,
I weave through thirteen rows
of hydrangeas, dogwoods, cherry blossoms,
crabapples, Japanese maples, Arborvitaes,
and blue spruce conifers with twenty feet
of red garden hose to quench the thirst
of this exotic, miniature forest.
The cold well water seeps
into my sneakers,
and numbs my fingers—
I look down and see caramel woodchips
camouflaging a fallen sparrow’s nest.
Three turquoise eggs
speckled with brown,
coddled against each other
and tucked in by a shield
of twisted twigs—
Three siblings
one large step away
from never being born.
That night, I dream of three
sparrows perched on my headboard,
full grown, absent of song.
Julia Bonadies holds a B.A. in English from Eastern Connecticut State University. She is currently working on her Masters in Secondary Education at ECSU. Her work is published in the Albion Review, Eunoia Review, and The Leaflet. She lives in Connecticut with her cat, Allister.
